


Breakfast in Bed

by mrs_d



Series: Songs for the Morning [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: But he keeps trying, Fluff, M/M, Morning After, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Steve Rogers Can't Cook, Waffles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_d/pseuds/mrs_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wow,” Sam murmured. He almost managed a straight face when he asked, “Did you make those yourself?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breakfast in Bed

**Author's Note:**

> The morning after [Partners Out There](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5648881). 
> 
> Thanks to Clementine and [Hekkenfeldt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekkenfeldt) for beta.

Sam woke slowly with the vague feeling that something was wrong. He shifted under the blankets and pressed his face into the pillow, trying to trace the origin of the sensation.

After a moment, he decided that it didn’t feel _wrong_ , precisely, but something was definitely off. He rolled over, reaching out, and learned right away what it was: the other side of the bed was huge and cold and empty. He opened his eyes and had a flash of confusion before his brain caught up, and he remembered that he was in New York. He was on the 87th floor of Stark Tower, in an apartment which Tony nicknamed the Star-Spangled Suite, though thankfully without the decor to match. And currently without its star-spangled occupant, too.

Sam rolled on to his back, wincing a little. Between yesterday’s battle and the victory sex afterwards, he had a few aches and pains. Also, probably rug burn. Typical. Sam made the executive decision that the next time Steve, the guy with advanced healing powers, wanted to fuck on the floor, he’d be the one on his hands and knees. It was only fair.

Steve was always a little grabby after a fight, but last night he’d been wound tighter than a eight-day clock after a quick shower and a meal with the team in which he kept looking at Sam and licking his lips. As soon as the elevator doors had closed behind them, Steve was on him, kissing him fiercely, and they never made it to the bedroom until they were ready — well, Steve was ready — for round two.

Thinking about last night woke Sam up the rest of the way, and he became very aware of his body, warming up under the covers, and of Steve’s absence. He brought his arms up behind his head and listened, thinking he’d hear Steve puttering around the apartment like he did at home, but the bedroom door was closed, and he suddenly noticed that JARVIS was piping white noise through the speakers in the ceiling.

That last realization got Sam out of bed in a hurry. Steve must have gotten up in the night, maybe from a nightmare; he only used white noise when shit was bad. The last time was the night before he and the team went after Von Strucker. Steve had paced the apartment for hours, talking out plans and strategies until Sam begged him to at least try the white noise. It had worked: Steve slept poorly, twitching and mumbling, but he did sleep. 

Sam had been almost relieved, despite his worry, to put him on the plane the next morning; Steve was cranky and miserable, snapping at everyone for stupid reasons. Clint got a lecture about tying his boots up properly, and, as the doors closed, Sam was pretty sure he caught the beginning of a new one about language etiquette and respecting one’s elders.

Sam was dressed and about to yank open the bedroom door — he had his hand on the knob — when JARVIS said, “Sir?”

Sam almost jumped out of his skin and glared at the ceiling. “Holy hell, JARVIS. Did Tony program you to scare the bejesus out of his guests, or what?”

“Not that I’m aware of, Sir,” JARVIS replied blithely. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Wilson, but Captain Rogers instructed me to ask that you not leave the room.”

Sam went cold. “Why?” he demanded. “What’s going on?”

“Sir, the Captain assured me there is no cause for alarm.” Suddenly Steve’s voice came through the speaker instead: “No need to worry, just tell him to sleep in, relax. Tell him it’s a surprise. Actually, no, don’t. Wait, are you recording this?”

The tension drained away at once, and Sam rolled his eyes. “Okay, then,” he said. “Is he out there?”

“No, Sir. Captain Rogers left the suite 12 minutes ago.”

“Do you know when he’s coming back?”

“He did not inform me of his itinerary, Sir.”

“Boy, you’ve really got a handle on dry humor, JARVIS,” Sam commented. “What the hell, I’m going out there anyway. I’ll tell Steve I disabled you.”

“I would appreciate that, Sir.”

Sam opened the bedroom door and was greeted by the smell of coffee and burned toast. He shook his head. He was pretty sure of what he would find when he got there, but he headed to the kitchen anyway.

Black crumbs were sprinkled around the toaster, and there was a literal trail of breadcrumbs from the fridge to the toaster to the garbage pail. On the stove, something that looked like it might have once been an omelet — if omelets were supposed to look like ground beef — was plastered to the inside of a wok. A pitcher was collecting condensation on the counter, and beside it, a broken glass was dripping orange juice on to the floor.

“Not again,” Sam sighed.

The only thing in the room that seemed okay was the full pot of coffee. When he wasn’t trying to crush the beans with his bare hands, Steve usually made good coffee — dark and strong, the way Sam liked it — but Sam couldn’t take any, or else Steve would know he’d been in the kitchen.

“JARVIS?” he called, giving the coffee pot a long, wistful look. “I’m going back to bed. Can you make sure this doesn’t start a fire or something?”

“Disabling all power to the kitchen now, Sir.” The room darkened at once, which greatly improved its appearance.

“Not a word that I was out here, JARVIS, you got that?” said Sam as he headed back down the hall.

“Of course, Sir.”

Just minutes after he shut the bedroom door, Sam heard faint voices coming from the kitchen. He got JARVIS to turn the white noise back on and dug through his knapsack to find his tablet.

He sat against the headboard, cushioned by a pile of pillows, and got to work. There were only a few weeks until Steve’s birthday; surely he could find a beginner's cooking class in time.

Almost half an hour later, there was a soft knock on the door. Sam bookmarked the page he was reading and closed the browser window as Steve poked his head in.

“You’re awake,” he remarked, sounding a little disappointed.

“Yeah, good morning to you, too,” Sam said casually. “Been up for a little while now. JARVIS told me you wanted me to stay put, so I did. What’s up?”

“I’ve, uh, got a surprise for you.”

Steve stepped back into the hall and then re-entered, pushing a cart laden with a covered platter, a pot of coffee that Sam’s caffeine-deprived head was very happy to see, and an honest-to-goodness long-stem rose in a narrow silver vase.

“Whoa,” Sam exclaimed, trying to seem surprised. “Breakfast in bed? What’s the occasion?”

“Well, for starters, I dragged you to Manhattan at a moment’s notice yesterday.”

Sam waved a hand, dismissing the implied apology. “Dude, aliens were invading, it’s cool.”

He shuffled to the edge of the bed and reached for the mug that Steve had just filled. He took a sip and hummed in pleasure.

“Plus, you saved my ass more than a few times,” Steve continued, once he’d let Sam and his coffee have an intimate moment.

“You’re damn right,” Sam agreed. “Had to. Got plans for that ass later.”

Steve chuckled, then swept his gaze down Sam’s body, stopping to linger at his lips and his lap. His tongue slipped across his bottom lip, and Sam just had to lean in for a taste, slow and careful, so he didn’t spill his coffee. Steve kissed him back, deep and wet, but gentle, before he brought his hand up to cup Sam’s face and pulled away.

“Breakfast first,” he said firmly.

Sam pretended to pout, but he brightened when Steve lifted the lid off the platter to reveal a heap of gorgeous Belgian waffles, a dish of fresh strawberries, a little pot of syrup, and a piping bag of whipped cream resting in a silver bowl.

“Wow,” Sam murmured. He almost managed a straight face when he asked, “Did you make those yourself?”

Steve froze for an instant and turned a little pink — he was really bad at this — but then he recovered and started making a plate.

“No,” he replied. “I wanted to, but, uh, there’s no waffle iron. So Ms. Potts arranged for catering.”

“Well done, Ms. Potts,” Sam murmured. He accepted the plate and folded his legs, so he could use his lap as a table.

Steve fixed himself a plate as well and joined Sam on the bed. “Out of her and Tony, sometimes I think she’s the real superhero,” he went on.

Her and the Stark Tower cleaning crew, Sam thought, but he smiled at Steve over his waffles and didn’t say a word.


End file.
